


Amétór

by walk_in_sunshine



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Gen, ghostly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 23:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11702298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walk_in_sunshine/pseuds/walk_in_sunshine
Summary: It was his first word. Windred wasn't quite sure how. She'd tried to teach him gentle words- words unlike death, or war, or vengeance. But the gentlest word, the one he seemed to favor, cut the deepest.





	Amétór

"Mama."

It was his first word. Windred wasn't quite sure how.

"Mama."

Windred cut her eyes to where Luke would be, his shoulders tight and his head down, but the widowed warrior knew better than to linger in the first hour after dark. She thought she heard him screaming on the shoreline, but tuned her ears from the sound- old age had its perks after all. 

Martin had a little doll- a pitiful thing crafted of dried kelp and seashells- and he studied it with singular intensity.

_Mama._

And he bobbed it once in his paw.

_Mama._

Again.

_Mama Mama Mama Ma-_ **_Thud._**

Windred didn't need to look to know, but she did, and little Martin was pointing at the doll splayed on the floor and his eyes were wide and misty. "Mama."

"Martin, Martin," Windred sighed. She picked the battered doll up from the floor and made a weak effort to straighten its leafy dress. "Must you play this game every night? It's not a nice game, little mouselet."

He had the grace to look shame-faced, and that alone- in a child of half a season- was chilling. 

_She'd tried to teach him gentle words- words unlike death, or war, or vengeance. But the gentlest word, the one he seemed to favor, cut the deepest._

~~

"Mama, why d'you feed 'im like that? Why not y'feed me, Mama?"

A careful breath.

"You're too old, Timbal. You know that."

A moment's pause.

"D'you no love your Timbal? 'M hungry too, Ma."

Timballisto's mother gave a long-suffering sigh and set Martin down to play.

"I love you, Timbal. But Martin needs me too. He doesn't have anybeast to feed him."

The young mouse didn't need to be reminded. He watched his mother half-heartedly shake a bone rattle at the mousebabe, and he let his ears droop. His eyes found Luke across the cave.

"C'n Da mice not feed their babies too?"

His mother's eyes darkened with a look he didn't know how to read, and she wasn't looking at him when she said, "I'm not sure he has a da anymore either, love."

He didn't know why his mother would say that. He didn't know why Luke hung his head as she passed.

"Mama." And he didn't know why little Martin called that in her wake.

"She's not your ma," Timbal corrected. He tried to be gentle, but firm, and rested his paws on his hips.

_"Mama."_ Martin replied just as firmly.

Timballisto's ears flattened. "She's not your mum. _She's mine."_

Baby Martin was glaring now, mirroring his posture with tiny paws on tiny hips. Timbal lowered his voice and leaned close to the milk-stained snout, knowing his next words would get him a tanning if they were overheard.

"You don' even have a mum. Tha's why you have to _steal mine!"_

Timballisto didn't need to be overheard. Martin had yet to stand on his own footpaws, _but now was as good a time as any,_ and he lunged at the older child with clenched fists and eyes full of tears.

"Mama!" He fell on Timbal, biting and punching. "Mama!"

He took a chunk out of Timballisto's ear before Luke wrestled them apart. Both got a tanning. Neither mentioned the fight again- and Timbal was sure Martin had long forgotten it.

_Late that night, long after Windred had gained an uneasy sleep and Luke had disappeared, Martin sat alone in the sands on a still-stinging tail. The driftwood plank rose high above him. He couldn't make out the squiggles on it. But the monument seemed to whisper to him in the light that danced from the waves. And he whispered back, the only word that mattered to him._

~~

"Mama."

It was a frightened whisper, and the little one held his tail in his paws for comfort in the darkness. He heard a sniffle.

"There there now, little beast," the orphan leapt in fright and landed hard on his rump. Martin knelt before him. The paw he held out to the babe was long past the age of flesh and bone, but was solid enough for Matthias.

"M-m-"

"Shhh," the ancient warrior cooed. "You'll see her again someday, little one. Just not tonight."

"M-miss her."

Martin led his charge to the abandoned cot and perched with him on the edge. Moonlight washed through the uncurtained window, and if young Matthias could see the way it streamed straight through the warrior's body, he made no comment.

"She misses you too, y'know." 

Matthias didn't speak.

"But she wants you to be brave. Can you be brave for her, Matthias?"

Matthias nodded glumly, and his head had no more bobbed than the great Joseph bell tolled out once, twice, thrice in the night. Little paws clutched his shoulders. The other dibbuns began to stir, but Martin quieted their spirits one by one, and wrapped almost formless arms around the mouselet in his lap.

"Do you not like the Joseph bell?"

The little paws tightened, threatened to pass through him.

"Scary."

Martin chuckled.

"I was scared of it too, at first," the long-dead warrior admitted. "I had never heard a bell before- not a big one like that."

Matthias's eyes were drifting shut, the child warm and feeling safe, and the hour late. 

"But after awhile... You realize what a pretty sound it makes." Matthias's nose gave one last, defiant twitch before his face relaxed. Martin let the mouselet lie back. "Maybe one day you'll ring the big bell, eh Little Champion?"

The echoes of the bell were like the echoes of waves, and Martin relished their fading as he passed over the heads of the dibbuns in their slumber.

And the ancient spirit hummed to them, as he had done for countless babes over innumerable ages: half a song that was half a memory of a little warm cave on the northland shore, of a mousewife an old one- and a stoic little mousebabe that called every passing beast _mother, mother,_ and whose cries in the night went unbroken.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, hope you enjoyed! FWI, those last couple lines up there were taken almost directly from a chapter of another fic I have up on FF. I just liked them a looooot, and now here they are again because *self advertisement*  
> I may have taken a bit of liberty with Timbal's age in this one... The book said he was only about three seasons old, so I made his vocabulary about like my four year old neice. Also couldn't remember whether or not his parents survived Vilu Daskar's raid, so.... If they didn't, we'll call that canon divergence.


End file.
